댄스 Amare Sing Vivere
by natcat5
Summary: Dance as though no one is watching. Love as though you've never been hurt before. Sing as though no one can hear you. Live as though heaven was on Earth. Fourshot of four couples. 4. Italy lives for now, then, and forever, always with the same smile.
1. Dance

Summary: Dance as though no one is watching. Love as though you've never been hurt before. Sing as though no one can hear you. Live as though heaven was on Earth.

**The first in a series of four. :) Based on the famous quote above.**

_**Dance- Korea/China **_

1. _Korea's inability to sit still is, perhaps, his most endearing quality._

Korea is always dancing.

It is one of those qualities of his, this inability to sit still. The young Asian is always moving, tapping his feet, his fingers, bobbing his head to some beat. He wiggles his hips obscenely when he's sitting down, and twirls as he steps and glides down the street.

At first, China blames it on the fact that Korea constantly has headphones super-glued to his ears. If he isn't gliding to Super Junior, he is popping to SHINee, or thrusting to TVXQ. His beloved Korean boy bands are perpetually dancing around his brain, influencing his feet and body to be always twisting and moving to the rhythm of some song.

Yes, at first, China blames the boy bands.

But then, upon further reflection, China remembers that Korea has had the ability to dance as though no one is watching since he was small. Since before boy bands or mp3 players. In fact, China distinctly remembers that when he first found Korea, thousands of years ago, the little nation had been doing some version of dancing. Swaying his head back and forth and moving his tiny arms from side to side with a content smile on his face. His eyes closed as he moved to a beat only he could hear.

Korea has always been dancing.

China remembers that it was embarrassing. That when he would meet other nations, Korea in tow, he wouldn't be able to explain the reason that his young charge wouldn't stop moving, wouldn't stop swaying and tapping and bopping up and down. Ceaseless energy, hyperness, a perpetual beat that never left his body.

Korea is always dancing.

China remembers when Japan invaded Korea, and forcibly made the nation part of his empire. China remembers thinking, at that time, that the harsh take-over might actually be the event to force the beat out of the young nation.

He was wrong.

China did not see Korea much during that time, but he remembers clearly the first time he did. Eyes black-rimmed and swollen almost shut, top half of his hanbok torn and dirty and ripped and the bottom half missing completely, with blood running down his thighs. Japan had been holding the young nation by the hair, shaking him, telling him to _stop it. _China, trying to remain impassive about the situation (Because this is what nations did to each other. They took and they conquered and they beat), hadn't understand what Japan meant.  
Until he saw Korea, with his legs shaking, drumming his fingers along his knees and swaying slightly from side to side, a wavering smile on his face as he gently tapped his feet against the ground.  
China had never seen Japan so angry.  
China had never been more relieved.  
Because if Korea was still dancing, if he could still hear that silent beat, then without a doubt, he would be alright.

Which is why that one time was so horrifying.

1952. The middle of the Korean War. Some part of China had hurt, had winced at the fact that he was helping tear his former charge apart by backing the Communist side of the country and helping their invasion, but he was a nation, with his own people to protect, and America was threatening them by invading so far into North Korea and aggressing the Chinese border. A war for protecting South Korea had become a war on Communism, and China took offense to that.

So he fought for North Korea.

China remembers dismissing all his misgivings, pricklings of unease that told him that somewhere Korea was suffering because of his intervention. He remembers fighting and commanding and pushing the younger nation to the back of his mind.

Until he met him again.

He remembers his boss telling him about an important meeting, with an important individual. He remembers thinking that it was probably just another pompous North Korean military leader, or a Soviet overseer, coming to make sure everything was going well. China remembers disliking this, he has always disliked this. Bigotry and arrogance rub China the wrong way, especially in the young, and it is just one of the many reasons he can't stand America.

But the person who China meets is not some conceited military leader. It is not some upstart little nation.

It is Korea.

But it is not.

China remembers that when he first sees the nation, his first reaction was to run up to him and hug him. To clutch him to his chest and rock him back and forth and stroke his hair and tell him everything will be alright because _nini _is here now and he will make the pain go away. When China sees Korea, he allows himself to realize how much hurt the young nation has gone through, and wants so bad to go to him and comfort him.

But the look in his former charge's eyes stops him in his tracks.

Korea, not-Korea, is looking at China with a look that China's Korea would never look at China with. His eyes are flinty, not a hint of the normal warmth that usually resides there. Instead, there is a wary, appraising, almost angry look. Like a caged tiger, looking at the man with the keys. He is staring at China with a look that has never before been on Korea's face before. And it worsens, as he turns to face China completely and bows respectfully.

"Hyung-nim," he sais, in a blunt voice that is all clipped and military without a hint of expression in it. "Thank you for meeting with me. I apologize for not being able to before this time. I have been preoccupied with those fighting for the South of my country."  
His voice is stiff, rehearsed. It's flat and contains no emotion. It's precise and articulate and there is no slang, and slurring of words, and everything is enunciated properly and _it's not his Korea. _

"It's fine," replies China automatically, barely registering the words he himself is saying. "Thank you for finding time to meet with me. I hope this war ends soon." The words are robotic, they come straight from his brain because his heart is wallowing in despair at what has become of his beloved younger brother.

However, he means what he sais. He hopes the war ends soon. Hopes with all his heart. Because this Korea, this Korea right now that is all military and war-like with flinty eyes and a clipped voice is not his Korea.

This Korea has not moved a muscle since his original bow.

This Korea is standing still.

This Korea is not dancing.

_This is not China's Korea. _

And China hates him. China hates him so much. But China is Communist. And North Korea is Communist. And in the icy winter of the Cold War that makes them unshakable allies. When the Communists rally together, China can stand with either Russia and his Soviet Union, or this warped, twisted, shell of his Korea.

China likes Russia, they share similar ideals, even if the nation is quite unnerving. He knows that getting closer to Russia has the potential to make China very strong.

But he stays with Korea.

He spends every moment with Korea.

And he coaxes him out, he coaxes his Korea out. He brings his South Korea back to him, and he softens North Korea at the same time.

Korea's Northern personality is never quite as prevalent as it was during the war. And over the course of years, it mellows out considerably. The lack of emotion, interrupted by flashes of anger, and militarism are still there, but when North Korea appears, China can be comforted by the fact that his fingers will most definitely be drumming a rhythm along his legs, or one foot will be tapping uncontrollably.

Dancing, if even in its smallest form.

Because Korea, whether it be North or South, is not Korea unless he is dancing.

/

"Nini?"  
Yao looks up, blinking as he turns away from the pages of his book. Yong Soo is sitting in a chair on the other side of the room, feet up and legs crossed, with his headphones around his neck blasting loud Korean pop that Yao has long since learned to block out.  
A blush blooms unbidden across the Chinese man's cheeks, and he finds himself unwillingly marveling at how adorable his former charge is when he's wearing his shirt with the South Korean colours and overlong sleeves and a shirt with the Chinese colours of red and gold overtop.

"Y-yes Yong Soo?" answers Yao, burying his face in the book to try and hide the red of his face.

"You know SHINee?" asks Yong Soo, and despite hiding behind his book Yao can see him tilt his head to the side adorably, eyes wide and inquiring. His blush deepens, and he ducks his head, blocking the Korean from his view completely.

"That Korean band with the effeminate looking boys?" he answers, muffled behind the protection of his novel.

"They're not effeminate!" pouts Yong Soo, both at the slandering of his band of the fact that his brother's sweet face has been hidden from him. "They're just really pretty!"

Yao pauses for a moment, knowing that at that moment an extremely attractive pout will be on Yong Soo's face. He debates abandoning his shield in order to get a glimpse of it, but decides against it. Because it is a world conference and they're in a hotel room and Japan is right next-door. The walls are too thin.

He settles for simple answering the younger nation's question. "….Yes I know them."

"Well, they're amazing dancers," continues Yong Soo proudly, "I love doing the choreography to their songs. Like Lucifer, and Ring Ding Dong. Their fast-spaced songs are amazing!" The Korean grins widely, standing up on the chair and beginning to enact the choreography to one of the aforementioned songs. And it's a very good thing that Yao's head is buried in a book because the song just happens to be Ring Ding Dong, which includes a side pelvic thrust move, repeated throughout the chorus. Seeing that really wouldn't have helped the Chinese man's self control.

"But, you know," continues Yong Soo, switching to some tutting moves from Lucifer, "Their slow songs are pretty awesome to dance to too."

"….I'm sure they are…"answers Yao slowly, hesitantly peeking his head over the top of the book as he realizes that this is clearly leading _somewhere. _

"So," sais Yong Soo, ending his tutting, to resort to simply rocking back and forth from his toes to his heels, a somewhat mischievous, but eager smile on his face. "Can I have this dance?"

"W-what?" explains Yao, dropping the book in indignation at the (preposterous!) suggestion.

Yong Soo grins and slides of the chair, skipping and twirling his way over to where his beloved _nini _is sitting. He grins wider at Yao's panicked expression, and bows low before the older nation, bobbing up and down in ceaseless rhythm as he does.

"Yao," he purrs, looking up seductively with his large, chocolate brown eyes, "Might I have this dance?"

While one hand reaches forwards towards a spluttering, embarrassed Yao, the other hands snakes into his pocket and to the iPhone within, changing the song.

As the fast beat of the previous song gives way to a slower, softer melody, Yong Soo's expression softens, and he looks up at his brother with wide eyes, a gentle smile on his face and one hand held forward.

Yao pretends to look at it dubiously, pretends to hesitate, but there is never any question. Because if Yong Soo's hand is there, he will take it.

He will take it and never let go.

And so, he allows Yong Soo to pull him up out of his chair, blushing as he falls against Yong Soo's chest, his head on his shoulder (really, when did he get so _tall?_), and the younger nation's arms snake around his waist, tugging him closer. Yao's heart beats furiously in his chest as he allows Yong Soo to lead him in a slow dance to the soft love song. He finds himself reaching up with his own arms, wrapping them around Yong Soo's neck, and he looks up hesitantly as the Korean beams down at him. Yao can't help but smile back, as he allows his body to follow the other's around in slow circles around the room.

Yao isn't a fan of dancing. He doesn't hate it, and he enjoys watching it, but it's not something he does for fun.

But because he is Yong Soo's boyfriend, and Yong Soo is always dancing, Yao has learned that his body has to be prepared to move in time with his partner's. To keep up with that ceaseless rhythm, that ceaseless flow of life.

Because Korea is not Korea unless he is swaying his head from side to side and tapping his feet and waving his arms and shaking his entire body to the beat of his Korean Spirit.

And China wouldn't have him any other way.

**Korea/China needs more love~  
I love how this turned out. Reviews, please? I'd love feedback on this!  
Next up is 'Love as though you've never been hurt before'. Any guesses on the couple? X3 **

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p **


	2. Love

**_Love- Spain/Romano _**

2. _Romano's ability to forgive embodies the Italian capacity for love._

The thing that most people don't realize is that Italy Romano is perhaps- no, is most definitely- the most forgiving person on the Earth.

The Italian shouts and curses a lot, and he throws things and he hits people, but there is not a single grudge that Romano is still holding. The sour looks he gives, the glares, the name-calling, it is all a front, because Italy Veniciano is far too forgiving and there can't be too Italies with exceptionally soft hearts.

Spain is not the most observant nation; in fact, he is often told that he is completely oblivious. And as such, did not always realize how blessed he was to have Romano, who has the ability to love as though he's never been hurt before, for a life partner.

Spain can remember, quite clearly, that from the moment he had met the younger nation, all he has done is hurt him. When he first meets Romano, when Austria first presents the young boy to him, Spain remembers skimming over the pouting boy to look at his adorable brother cowering behind the bespectacled nation.

Because the sour expression that South Italy is wearing is just _not as cute _as the adorable blush and sweet look on his northern brother's face.

And it continues on like that. Spain takes Italy Romano home, whilst looking over his shoulder with a pout to watch Italy Veneciano trot away with Austria. Idly commenting on how he wished Romano would smile like his brother. The boy doesn't respond to the comment, turning his head away from his new caretaker whilst muttering obscenities under his breath.

When they reach the Spaniard's home, it is much of the same. Spain sighs and watches Romano blunder through his chores or choose to not do them all together. Criticizing the boy's efforts and wishing he could be as efficient as his little brother. Oblivious as he is, Spain makes these comments aloud, watching his young charge with a pout, noticing the glares that the boy sends him, and the angry kicks to the shins, but not the hurt looks, or the watery gazes.

No, Spain does not notice them.

The situations are numerous, and the amount of pain that Spain puts Romano through grows steadily. He tries to exchange the boy for his brother, he gets upset at him when he disrupts a meeting with some German ambassadors, he casually pulls on that silly curl…

He hurts the boy again and again, and does not notice. Perhaps, that is the worst. That he does not notice.

Quite frankly, he doesn't think the boy cares. Romano, it seems, has made it quite clear that he dislikes Spain, Spanish things, and 'the entire fucking empire', as he so eloquently puts. Anything Spain does simply adds to the dislike.

He thinks. That's what Spain assumes. For a long time, that's what Spain assumes.

Then comes the incident with Turkey. The vicious Ottoman Empire, out to expand his kingdom and power, attempts to kidnap the tiny South Italy, to wrest him from Spain.

Spain remembers being enraged by this. He remembers feeling his cheerfulness fade and be replaced by raw anger. How dare he try and steal _his _Italy Romano?

And this is perhaps, the first time that Spain is cognizant of how much he cares for the little Italian. How he has come to love his pouts and his puffed out cheeks and his tiny temper tantrums and the way he stares at a mop with such an intense look on his face that it makes the Spaniard laugh. He suddenly appreciates the boy for being the only other nation with the same intense love of tomatoes, and a similar culture and style.

Somewhere amidst all the complaining about him, Spain has developed a deep love for Romano, and the mere thought of the slimy Turk's hands on him makes him see red.

So he goes after him, determined, a light in his emerald eyes that is both recognizable and foreign. For it's the light of a pirate, and a conquistador, but burning with not vengeance, lust, or greed, but worry, and love, and a need to protect the little boy that has somehow become quite important to him.

And when the battle is finished, and Turkey is gone and Romano is safely back in his care, Spain remembers thinking that, it might be a good idea to _tell _Romano how much he means to him. How much he actually is cared for.

And then he remembers the sharp lance of pain that shoots through his chest when Romano opens his eyes and grumpily remarks that if Spain's here, he must be in Hell.

Spain remembers this moment clearly, from the sullen look in Romano's eyes to the way his bottom lip is quivering slightly. He remembers it so clearly because this is when he realizes, this when he finally becomes aware of how much he must have hurt the younger country.

And he realizes that Romano must hate him. Completely and utterly. How could he not? Spain has done nothing but criticize and hurt the young boy from the moment they met. And the boy has made no secret of his dislike for his caretaker. The hate is evident, and Spain has absolutely no hope of rectifying their relationship.

He takes the boy home with a heavy heart.

The day, this most horrible day in the Spaniard's life, continues to get worse as he is set upon by his boss, who berates him for spending so much time and effort in rescuing the ungrateful Italian. Spain bears it, cringing at the harsh words that rain down upon him. He considers it a kind of punishment, for treating his young charge so wrongly. However, whatever his boss sais, he knows that he will never quite take her words seriously, because there is no way he is relinquishing Romano to the Turks. Whether the boy hates him or not, he is better off being part of the Spanish Empire until he is old enough to take care of himself, or perhaps, reunited with his brother.

Spain remembers going to bed that night with the heaviest of hearts, thinking back over all of his interactions with Romano, and how much he hurt the boy, over and over, and over…

And then, when Romano sneaks into the room, clutching a pillow and with the most sheepish of looks on his face, muttering a soft _Thank you _muffled by the cloth and with his eyes averted, a blush dusting his cheeks, Spain remembers wondering what he could have done to deserve this forgiveness, to have the boy cautiously climb into bed beside him, to thank him, to let Spain touch the top of his head and only resort to violence when his curl his touched.

And after, when Spain is apologizing furiously, wondering if he lost his only chance with the boy, Romano curtly tells him to stop groveling and shut up, because as long as the man can still grow a decent tomato then Romano forgives him and that's that.

As oblivious as Spain is, the meaning of the boy's words isn't lost on him. He can understand how much hurt he's put the child through over the years, and how undeserving he is of his forgiveness. And he realizes that Romano has just told him that he'll forgive him _no matter what. _

Spain continues to see examples of Romano's amazing ability to forgive as the years go by. He curses at France, the man who was the bane of the Italian's existence in his youth, but he doesn't hate him. As much as he claims he wants to castrate the man, he allows his brother to hug and snuggle with 'his big brother', pretending not to notice, but really, has just forgiven the Frenchman for his attempts at kidnapping, and respecting his brother's wishes. Because he loves Veneciano, and he wants his brother to be happy, even if that means letting him cling to a pervert.

It is similar with Germany. Spain, neutral though he may have been, remembers clearly what Romano looked like in 1943, after Italy seceded from the war, and Germany's crazy boss made it clear that if he cannot have Italy, no one can. The air strikes decimate South Italy more than it does the North. The panzer division roll into Naples, the churches are desecrated, the women are raped, the children are orphaned and then killed, and Romano is in so much pain that Spain thinks he will never recover.

But he does, and he swears, and he curses, but he concedes, and he lets his little brother date the man who nearly killed him. And Spain remembers, remembers with awe, the day he saw Germany give Romano a sorrowful, guilty look, and Romano answer with a curt nod, tilting his head in the direction of Veneciano, to tell the German where to find his brother.

Completely forgiven.

Romano loves his brother, and his brother loves Germany, and his brother loves France, and so, Romano forgives them. He forgives them completely and allows his brother to interact with them, pushing back memories of whatever may have been done to him in the past. And he forgives Veneciano as well. Forgives him for still loving the man who, under his boss's order, tried to murder them both.

He forgives, because he loves.

/

"Oi, _bastardo." _

Antonio turns his head away from the window, blinking in surprise at the Italian who has suddenly appeared in his doorway. Lovino stands there, arms folded in a stand-offish way across his chest, a familiar scowl on his face. His entire posture is stiff and unfriendly, but his eyes are warm, mischief sparkling in their amber depths. A smile spreads across the Spaniard's face at the sight, and he waves cheerfully. "_Hola, mi amor," _he says angling his chair away from the window to face the doorway and the younger nation.

A blush blooms on Lovino's tanned cheeks, and he turns away with a 'tch' sound, while simultaneously walking into the room. Antonio's eyes follow him closely, watching as he makes his way to sit, one leg folded a top of the other, on the bed. Lovino stares at Antonio openly, and the Spaniard finds himself blushing under the intense gaze.

"_Idioto, _if you keep sitting with your head in the sun like that," comments the Italian dryly, watching the way Antonio's head is positioned directly in the beam of sunlight coming through the window, "You're going to lose the few brain cells you have." Lovino pats the spot on the bed beside him, smirking and tilting his head as he stares at the elder nation. "Come over here, bastard. You don't need to get any stupider."

Antonio's eyes widen in surprise, and his grin broadens as he slides off the chair and practically runs across the room to jump onto the bed beside his lover. Lovino makes a noise of discontentment as the bed shakes underneath him, and he growls as Antonio pulls him into his chest, an arm wrapped firmly around his shoulders.

"Jack-ass, did I say you could touch me?" snaps the younger man, but he leans into Antonio's embrace all the same, nuzzling his head into the Spaniard's chest.

Warmth blossoms in Antonio's chest, and he is filled with such giddyness and happiness at the affectionate, loving mood his lover is in, that he turns the Italian slightly, and delivers a rather passionate kiss to the younger man. Lovino makes a noise of surprise, and he curses into Antonio's mouth, nipping at the man's lips slightly. Antonio grins, and pulls the younger man closer, deepening their kiss and hugging Lovino to his chest. The Italian melts into the contact, allowing himself to be pulled backwards onto the bed.

Antonio breaks their kiss to stare up at Lovino with green eyes sparkling with love, absolute adoration in them.

"I love you, Lovi," he whispers, leaning up to kiss the other man's forehead, running a hand through the soft auburn locks.

Lovino blinks, before making that 'tch' sound again and moving to press his lips against Antonio's. He pulls back after only a second, smirking down at the other nation.

"Love you too, _bastardo,"_ is his warm reply, accented by the movement of his lips against the underside of Antonio's jaw.

Antonio frowns and, despite the pleasure the contact between them brings, sits up, pushing Lovino off of his chest and into a sitting position. His lover is frowning, but Antonio's frown is deeper.

"Why?" he asks, in a quiet, whispery voice. "Why do you love me, Lovi?"

Antonio moves away from the Italian, his eyes downcast and his entire body slumped forward. "…I've hurt you so much."

Because even now, centuries and centuries after the horrible treatment he put the Italian through in his youth, Antonio still feels the guilt. And he feels the guilt for other things as well. For not being able to help the Italies in either World War, for being oblivious, and not noticing when Lovino was hurt or upset. For forgetting that the thing Lovino hated most was to be forgotten or brushed aside, for doing this without notice, for disappearing with his friends, fawning over Feliciano…

It seems to Antonio, that all he has ever done, and continues to do, is hurt Lovino. He can't understand _why _Lovi stays with him, why he claims to love him, if all Antonio is going to do is hurt him again and again and again…

"Oi, _bastardo, _the hell are you sulking for?" A harsh yank on his hair pulls Antonio out from his lamenting, and he looks up to see Lovino's face inches from his own. The man's cheeks are puffed out, as he never quite grew out of the habit of holding air there when he was upset, and a cross between a pout and scowl downturns and sticks out his lips.

The sight is so adorable that Antonio almost loses him composure and kisses the Italian, but he swallows thickly and averts his eyes. "I don't deserve you, Lovi," he mutters softly, "I'm the worst boyfriend ever."

Lovino blinks in surprise, then snorts, smacking the Spaniard across the face and causing the man to yelp.

"_Moron. _I told you before didn't I?" scowls Lovino, grabbing a fistful of Antonio's shirt and pulling him close, so that their noses are touching. "I don't care what the fuck you do to me, so long as you can grow a decent tomato."

"But Lovi, _why?_" whines Antonio, green eyes staring pleadingly into Lovi's intense amber ones. "_Why _do you forgive me? You forgive everyone, and I don't understand…"

Lovino's eyes blink in surprise, and he once again makes that angry 'tch' sound, pulling back. He folds his arms across his chest and turns his head to the side, closing his eyes.

They sit in a silence, Antonio with his hands clutching the blanket tightly, and his eyes clenched shut. He waits in anguish for Lovino to respond, and after a minute of silence, he's in agony.

It's then that he feels a hand on his chest, and he opens his eyes to see Lovino, leaving overtop of him with the other hand positioned against the wall. He's climbed atop of the Spaniard, knees on either side of Antonio's hips.

"Life's too short," he says curtly, his eyes surprisingly warm and tender, "And I'm Italian. That means I'm a lover. There's no room for grudges."

"So you forgive me? And everyone?" whispers Antonio, drowning in the warmth of the Italian's gaze. Lovino smirks down at him, moving his head closer. "Always," he whispers, "Forgiveness is divine, and love is even better. Everyone in this damn world is an idiot anyways. Not worth my time to stew over their mistakes."

"Everyone is?" murmurs Antonio, a smile tugging at his lips, "Including me?"

Lovino gives a little laugh and leans down, pressing his lips against his lover's. "Especially you," he growls against Antonio's mouth, moving his hands down the Spaniard's sides to tug at his belt, "Otherwise you wouldn't have asked such ridiculous questions."

Antonio can't help but grin, and he melts into the kiss, wrapping his arms around his lover's hips and pulling the man against him. The Italian's body fits perfectly against his, and the Spaniard makes an appreciative noise at the feel of the other man's heartbeat against his own.

Antonio will never feel worthy of the intense forgiveness that Lovino gives him. He knows that. But he feels immensely lucky to be the partner of the Italian, who is capable of loving everyone and everything, for forgiving everyone who has ever hurt him, including Antonio.

Because Italy Romano's defining personality trait is not his anger, or his stubbornness, or his cowardice, but rather, his ability to let his abused heart love those who have hurt him, to let his love for others overshadow any pain that he's been put through. To love, always to love.

And Spain loves him for loving _him, _unconditionally.

**This one was a little more, er, touchy? I guess it's to be expected. 'Dance' ended with a dance, so 'Love' should end with something along these lines…**

**No one guessed this couple. Actually, not a lot of people guessed at all. :p The one guess I did get surprised me. I really didn't even consider that couple for this, though it makes sense. **

**Next is 'Sing as though no one can hear you'. This one's not super-obvious, or obvious at all, and really, it could be anyone, so I'm interested to see who you guys think it is. **

**Please review! Romano is my favourite character, but this is my first time writing him, so tell me how I did! **

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p**


	3. Sing

**_Sing- America/England _**

3. _England's voice is almost as amazing as his liberal use of it._

England has the clearest, most divine voice on the planet, and in it he presents all his emotions and thoughts with the utmost clarity.

Most people don't realize this, as the thing nations usually notice about England's voice is the high volumes it can reach. He is most liberal in his use of it, and is not afraid to let loose his opinions and shoot out callous remarks.

America happens to love this. He loves how casually England throws his voice around. How he doesn't hide it, how he lets the world bask in it's smooth melody and divine sound. The young nation thinks he might be jealous of England letting others hear his voice so casually, if it weren't for the fact that no one seemed to notice the beauty, and the emotion, of the man's tone but him.

America can remember when he was little, a young colony, with stars in his eyes and dreams stretching from his tiny collection of settlements on the coast across the untamed west and to the other side. He remembers being afraid of the vastness of himself, of the emptiness and unknown of his own lands. But he also remembers strong arms holding him, and a soft, accented voice singing **(1)** into his ear.

America remembers feeling slightly nervous. He was young, he wanted someone strong, had he chosen incorrectly? The other one, France, had had so many pretty things…but England had looked so sad…

But his doubts vanish. His doubts vanish into thin air as soon as he hears England's voice. Because in that single, crooning melody, America hears love. He hears love and promises and protection and warmth and love. And when England looks down at him with warm green eyes and tells him 'I will protect you,' America believes it with all his heart, and he smiles, and he reaches up.

Because England's voice is as clean and clear as a sunny day. It conceals nothing, and lets his emotions shine through clearly. Each time England speaks, America feels as if he's looking into his brother's soul, his mind, his life. Because England speaks as if in song, as if singing when no one could hear him. Baring his soul with his voice, and hiding none of what lies within.

Because of this, America has always been extremely aware of what England is feeling. Each sigh, each irritated note, the slight slowing of speech or strained tone, America can tell when England is sad, upset, tired, or just wants a hug.

America remembers not understanding how anyone else could _not _tell. England's voice just seemed so full of emotion- especially love- that it seemed unfathomable that no one would notice it.

Until the time, when he himself, did not notice it.

Rain. Blood. Sweat. Tears. That is the sorrowful sympathy of this night. Stormy clouds, hanging heavy and low, with rain pouring down from skies once light and blue.

Perhaps, the blue sky is stormy and crying, because his own blue eyes are not. They won't. He refuses to let them.

Across the plain, England's eyes are firm, are flinty, like chips of emerald. Gone is the soft mossy colour, replaced by a hard, cold, jewel. His posture is tense and unwelcoming, bayonet poised to strike, mouth down turned in both a scowl and a snarl. He looks ready for battle, ready to kill, to stop America from leaving, from seceding. To stop him from chasing the dreams of freedom and greatness and all the things he used to inspire in him.

But America doesn't think he looks much better. He has his full army behind him, his rifle held at the ready, and a determined look on his face. All of it to mask the way his hands are shaking, the way his body yearns to lurch forward and hug and nuzzle and listen to his big brother speak his tones of love and protection and hope.

But England's voice has held none of that recently. England's voice has been full of resentment and strictness and lack of respect. America is a _child, _America _does not understand _how these things work. England is his _caretaker _and England _knows best _so just shut up and pay the bloody taxes!

The tone is loud, it's angry, there's pain underneath it. And fear. America's never heard England sound afraid before. And he hears it, and he questions. And he decides, and he revolts.

And here they are.

At first, it is a staring contest. England stares at America angrily and America stares at England with resolution. There is a tense atmosphere, and it is as if there is no army behind them and no one but the two nations facing off. America is immensely glad of this. He is so immensely glad of this silence because he doesn't want to hear what England's voice will tell him. In this war, he has seen his former brother very little. Just glimpses, no conversation. He has not heard his voice since the last time England left for Europe, his tone angry, assertive, unbudging. And he is terrified to hear England's voice now. Because England's voice has always been capable of telling what his face cannot. While other nations might say that England is hard to read and keeps his emotions bottled up, America can hear every thought and all the pain and all the love from a single word.

He doesn't want to hear it.

So he listens instead to the pounding of the rain. The peals of thunder and the anxious shuffling of his troops behind him. When he finally speaks, and England replies, America focuses on every other sound. He focuses on the battle, on freedom, and he pretends that he only hears the words. That he can't hear the soft melody of pain, betrayal, longing, love, like the bass tone in a minstrel song, underneath the top notes of anger and unyielding pride.

And he can only watch when, for the first time, he sees England's pain on his face, sees the tears trickle down his cheek, and _sees_ the melody of agony, instead of hearing it.

The saddest song he's ever seen.

And one he wishes he never heard.

America remembers how, amongst the cries of victory and the songs of freedom being crooned across the land, all that he could hear was the sound of England's bitter sobbing, and the way it hadn't sounded so much like anger and resentment, as it did a broken heart.

And it ends like that.

America does not see England for many years after that. There are negotiations between the two countries, treaties, trades, but the nations never meet face to face. The last time America hears England's voice is when he turns and walks away, leaving the man sobbing on the battlefield.

So it is very, very easy to ignore Britain's pleas for America to join World War I.

America remembers the endless cascade of letters and telegrams. Of British ambassadors with tired, haggard faces, and of the propaganda that the British intelligence try to spread, try to guilt the Americans into the war. America remembers them, and he remembers ignoring them, because he's an isolationist, and good old George Washington's parting words were that America should never let himself get drawn into foreign affairs, especially those in Europe.

He turns away and plugs his ears.

But then, comes the telegram. The Zimmerman telegram. Something that, as scandalous as it is, America might have been able to ignore. He might have been able to turn a blind eye.

If England hadn't delivered it personally.

If England hadn't shown up on his doorstep, looking tired, with bags under his eyes and a ruffled suit, and a strange, vacant look in his eyes.

If England hadn't opened his mouth and said 'Hello, America."

If America hadn't had the ability, that uncanny ability to hear every emotion and every thought from a single tone, then he would have been okay.

But as it were, when England speaks, America doesn't hear the words. All he hears is the pain. The anguish. The regret and the self-hatred and the longing and the loneliness. And England hasn't even begun his next sentence before America has flung himself at him and enveloped him in a bone-crushing hug.

America is happy. He is so, so, happy that he can once again hear England's beautiful voice, and the tones of love, and longing and warmth that tremble within it. And he is surprised. Surprised when England hugs back. Surprised that they can both forgive so easily. Surprised that it took them over a century to do so.

But he is even more surprised years later, when he discovers that England's voice can have more of an undercurrent of music, but can belt it out as well. Because another war later, there comes a time when the soft tone and melody of England's voice is no longer subtle or partially hidden.

Because rock n' roll represents freedom, and England has never looked freer than when he's belting out ''All You Need is Love' in the middle of a huge crowd, smirking up at America as he turns from the band and sings to him, only to him, with a note in his voice that is so raw and so passionate with so much feeling and so much _love…_

America is amazed. He's amazed and astounded and _so _in love. It amazes him. It amazes him how England can just stand there and _sing._

Sing like no one else is there, like no one else can hear the love and the emotion and all the inner feelings of his soul that he's releasing through his voice.

/

"You're staring."

Alfred blinks, surprised, before rubbing the back of his head and smiling sheepishly. Arthur is staring at him, having just swiveled his chair around from where he is sitting at his desk. One leg is crossed over the other, and his elbow rests on top of the wooden surface, cheek resting on his fist. He looks slightly confused, as well as a bit embarrassed, the slightest of blushes on his face.

Alfred can't help but smile at the cute sight, and he shrugs casually, leaning back against the wall with his hands in his pockets.

"Well, you're singing," he answers back with a crooked grin, "It was cute."

The blush on Arthur's face deepens, and he looks down, fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve. "Again? Bollocks," he mutters under his breath, leaning back in his chair with a sigh. "I'm always doing that."

Alfred nods in agreement, still smiling. "You sing out loud a lot," he agrees, "But you know I like it when you sing."

Arthur blushes again and looks away, running a hand through his straw-coloured locks. "I know," he mumbles, looking down, abashed, "But I can't for the life of me understand why."

Alfred's eyes widen in disbelief, and he bounds across the room, taking both Arthur's hands tightly in his own. Arthur's eyes widen in alarm, and the red dusting on his cheeks turn a deep scarlet. Alfred wants to frown at that. At the fact that Arthur is _still _so easily embarrassed and freaked out by simple touches here and there. Especially since he _knows _that Arthur _does _like it when he touches him. That's what his voice says, even if his stiff posture says differently.

"Why?" repeats Alfred, moving his face close to Arthur's own blushing one. "Because I love your voice, that's why!"

Arthur blinks, before a shy smile spreads across his face and he allows himself to lean his own face closer.

"What about my voice?" he asks huskily, his eyes lidded and looking at Alfred expectantly, mossy green boring into sky blue. Alfred is lost in the gaze, the deep sea of green, and he swallows down the urge to push forward and meld his lips against the older man's. Because Arthur asked him a question, and he has to answer it. Even if it's a question that he's asked before, even if it's a question that Alfred has answered before, he still has to answer it. Because Arthur loves the answer he always gives and Alfred loves giving it.

"I love your voice," begins Alfred, quietly and slowly, "Because of the way it sounds."

"And how does it sound?" asks Arthur immediately, the familiar lines of their familiar banter widening the smile on his face.

"It sounds," continues Alfred, closing his eyes with a smile, "Like everything. It sounds like the rustling wind of a thousand endless forests. Each one full of mysteries and secrets and things that humanity should never touch."

Alfred feels Arthur shudder before him, and he knows that the man is having flashbacks of his youth, that he is envisioning the forests and the things within them that only he can see. After a moment, Arthur squeezes his hands and whispers, "Go on."

Alfred swallows and nods, pulling the man up out of the chair and wrapping his arms around his waist.

"It sounds like," continues the young man, taking a deep breath, "Like a thousand battles and a thousand battlefields. Like fight after fight and victories and losses. Like triumph and defeat going hand and hand with regression and progression."

Arthur makes a noise that might have been a whimper, and a pang goes through Alfred's chest. But he merely holds the man closer, moving one hand up to run his fingers through his hair. He knows Arthur wants him to keep going, so he does.

"And it sounds like power," he whispers, "Like power, and pride, and the height of an empire. And all the things that go along with that. Like arrogance, dominance, ruthlessness…." Alfred loses his breath here. It's always hard for him to acknowledge this side of Arthur, because he was never fully exposed to it. His time in the British empire was, for the most part, a time of happy memories. He has never been subjected to the cruelty that Arthur had been known for. Even the revolution would forever seem to him like a teenage fight over more freedom. He knows it isn't true, and that he has probably idolized Arthur in his mind, but thinking of Arthur's darker side is not something Alfred likes to do, and he tries to avoid it.

But that didn't mean he couldn't hear it.

That didn't mean he wasn't aware of the underlying arrogance and smugness and the smallest hint of a piratical twang that colour Arthur's voice. The smirk that sometimes appears and the way his voice harshens and lowers into a husky, mocking whisper when he speaks to Antonio or Yao, or into an angry growl when he is in a particularly heated argument with Francis. Empire is engraved into Arthur, and whether he acknowledged it or not, Alfred could always hear it in the man's voice.

Arthur's hands cling to Alfred's jacket, his face leaning against the taller man's chest as he shakes slightly. Alfred swallows thickly, shaking his head to clear it of troubling thoughts, before continuing.

"And it sounds like change," he says quietly, "Like the change of centuries, and the change of times, and the change in the minds of a people. Like a change in power, in status, in everything. Like a voice changed again and again, until it _is _those changes…a little bit of every change, every event, everything that has occurred in each and every year of each and every century…"

Alfred pauses, smirking down at Arthur and poking his side playfully. "Old man," he teases, lightening the somewhat heavy mood that descended. Arthur lifts his head up indignantly, scowling whilst still blushing. Alfred laughs, moving back to once again lean against the wall, pulling Arthur down with him.

"And it sounds like," he continues, his voice bubbling with happiness, "It sounds like music. Music from every genre and every time period. It sounds like violins and pianoes, and vast orchestras, and it also sounds like pipes and mandolins, and gaelic chanting. And-," Aflred grins, "It sounds like guitar, and heavy bass, and thick, loud drumlines. It sounds like John Lennon, and Freddie Mercury, and Gary Lightbody and Marcus Mumford and…"

Alfred looks down at the Brit who is staring up at him with lidded eyes, a small half smile upturning his lips. Arthur's arms snake around his neck, and Alfred tugs the man closer.

"Whereas you," purrs Arthur, shyness gone as he grins up at his boyfriend, "Sound like nothing but noise if you don't have a synthesizer and vocoder."

Alfred makes a noise of protest, which is cut off as Arthur begins singing under his breath, staring up at him with adoring eyes as his mouth moves slowly and rhythmically. Alfred can only stare in wonder as the familiar tune of 'All You Need is Love' flits into his ears. His own mouth begins moving of his own accord, and he finds himself singing along, holding Arthur close to him as each sings into the other's ear.

There's nothing quite like it. The two of them holding each other close, letting the soothing melody of their voices lull them into bliss. Alfred feels like he's floating in the soft tones of Arthur's voice, of the waves of emotion that colour and define. And he wonders, for the millionth time, how Arthur can bare his soul like that. How he can speak and reveal all his thoughts and feelings to anyone listening.

But perhaps, the fact is that, no one _can _hear the emotion in Arthur's voice. All of the hidden crevices and secret workings of his soul.

Because when England speaks, the hidden emotion is for only one person to hear, and when he sings, it's to him, and him alone.

And America feels blessed, happy, and overjoyed to _be _that person, forever and always.

**(1) Can't remember if England sings to America in the Japanese version. But he does in the English dub. So…**

**This was so hard! ;A; Unlike the other pairings, it was really hard to make this connection work. But I really liked the idea of it, so I stuck with it. I considered changing it, but then I thought, what kind of writer am I if I give up so easily? I should rise to the challenge! So I did, and I tried. **

**Did I make it work? Was the connection plausible? **

**Anyway, AFJHGDHSDJFKDJSHD HOLY CRAP. REVIEWS FOR LAST CHAPTER. **

**YOU GUYS MADE ME CRY, SERIOUSLY, THANK YOU SO MUCH. I LOVE YOU ALL SO HARD. **

**I'm so happy you liked my Spamano so much! It's my OTP, and I feel so happy knowing I apparently write it well. You're making me seriously consider writing a Spamano AU that's been floating around my head for a few months now...**

**Next chapter is the last one! 'Live as though heaven was on earth'. I have a hunch on what everyone is going to guess for that one. ;p  
The pairing is guessable, but not super obvious. I considered giving a prizefic to whoever guesses it correctly, but I've never had the feeling that people liked my writing enough to _want _prizefics from me. **

**Anyways, review! Did I utterly fail on this chapter? **

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p**


	4. Live

**Lack of reviews for last chapter depressed me...I think I only got two originally, and five over-all. As apposed to the fourteen reviews I got for chapter two. T~T And chapter three was the chapter I really wanted feedback on! Because it was so hard to write! **

**This chapter was hard to write too. Also, I couldn't get in the mood to write it. Blaaahhh. **

**_Live- Germany/Italy _**

_3. Italy lives for now, then, and forever, always with the same smile._

Italy Veneciano has perfected the ability to simply…_live. _

The Italian has it down to a flawless art. The simple talent of going through each and every day with a smile, to go to every place with a skip in his step, to greet anyone and everyone with boundless joy and an excess of energy and happiness.

Germany has always been both astounded and enamored by this ability. The way Italy can go from a blubbering mess to a cheerful grin in the blink of an eye. The way he hums and sings in whatever he does. The way he manages to see the good in everyone and has more than enough room in his heart for the entire planet. To Germany, it is never less than a source of awe. How, in this chaotic world that they live in, can someone find happiness in every day and smile through painful situations with a skip in his step and pasta in hand?

Germany remembers his and the Italian's first meeting. When Italy easily transitions from crying and pleading for his life to deciding that Germany is his new best friend. The way he takes being held prisoner as a chance for a vacation, takes escape opportunities as a chance to flirt with girls, and shoots bright, honest smiles at Germany, despite the fact that the blonde man is his jailer.

Utterly ridiculous.

Germany, stern, by the book, with a fixed view on life and how it works, cannot begin to comprehend the Italian's attitude. His seemingly perpetual happy mood, his gaiety, his silliness, his lack of any type of seriousness whatsoever. In his first meetings with Italy Veneciano, Germany remembers being nothing short of flabbergasted. His sense of relief when Italy is finally removed from his care is well founded, because the Italian's carefree lifestyle has shaken Germany's strict one. The brief amount of a time that they spend together is enough to shake the foundations of what Germany believes in, and causes him to actually consider the ridiculous possibility that, even as a nation, there is a way to.._.live. _

Germany remembers how, in the following decades, he tries to banish the Italian from his memory. Italy's way of living does not suit Germany's strict life, and Germany attempts to pretend that the Italian did _not _completely rattle his own beliefs in how the world works and how nations are meant to live. However, the brief respite does not last, and with a second world war looming on the horizon, Germany once again finds himself cringing in the face of Italy's blatant enthusiasm.

Germany remembers their World War 2 relationship, and how, throughout it, he continues to see examples of Italy's ability to live for every moment, as if he didn't expect repercussion for his actions. As if, no matter what, he would come out all right. He plunges headfirst into friendship with Germany as well as Japan, two nations who both have something of an unsavory reputation on the world stage. Nations that are known for violence, for war. And yet, Italy, chooses to ally himself with them, to make friends with them, to make pasta with them and sing with them and sleep with them.

Living as if there were no possible consequences for his actions. Living his life to the fullest. With whomever he chooses, however he chooses, regardless of the enemies he procures. Despite his apparent cowardice, Italy lives as if he has no fear of the beyond.

In the first days of their alliance, Germany's previous confusion melts into utter annoyance. The way Italy clings to him, cries for help, flails about helplessly and then smiles as if he's done nothing wrong when Germany finally comes to his rescue. A huge, carefree, bright and honest smile. With his hands clasped together in happiness and his head tilted to the side adorably. Italy has no qualms with dragging Germany, and Japan, around in his ridiculous business. Pushing aside work and war to ensure that he spends time with his 'friends'. The level of naivety is laughable. Ridiculous.

But, somehow, this freeness of spirit, this bubbliness, this happiness, this willingness to live as though heaven is on Earth, loosens up Germany's gruff exterior and manages to worm the Italian into the intimidating man's heart. Italy's smile is reflected back on Germany's own face. To a lesser extent of course, but it cannot be denied that the blonde's lips have taken to quirking upwards in a rarely used expression. And slowly but surely, annoyance melts into something else.

Friendship.

It's amazing how quickly Italy's ceaseless enthusiasm becomes more endearing than aggravating. How the consistent tugging on Germany's arm becomes much less annoying than it once was. How a steaming plate of pasta becomes just as welcoming as a bowl of potatoes and wurst. How Germany no longer stiffens and yelps when Italy envelops him in a hug. Rather, he finds himself melting into the embrace with his newfound smile.

The change that follows is subtle, it's barely noticeable, and is easily over-shadowed by the war they're in. It's a change that neither man notices, or perhaps, choose not to notice. The possibility of something _past _friendship is one that Germany does not even consider. _Cannot _consider.

Until that day. That horrible day.

Germany remembers when Italy left. He remembers it as, perhaps, the rawest and most painful memory that he has. He remembers the days leading up to it. The ceasing of skipping around the house, the quiet crying instead of loud singing, and the sudden lack of warmth by his side at night.

And then the departure.

Italy, running out into the street, a half-open suitcase held tightly to his chest as he runs towards the car at the end of the driveway, Romano yelling at him to move faster. And himself, Germany, standing in the doorway, with his hand outstretched and a shocked, hurt, _devastated_, expression on his face.

Because, it is then, only then, after decades of knowing the Italian, that Germany understands the significance of the man in his life. He understands that, it's not just that Italy is full of life, full of joy, full of an abundance of happiness and love and caring and_ life_. It's that he shares this life. That he exudes it, and shines it everywhere. And somewhere, somehow, Germany's life became tied to Italy's, and his happiness as well.

It is at least a decade before they see each other again, and with the destruction of Naples still hang over their heads, it is another decade before they can exchange words. After their first conversation however, it is remarkably easy for them to fall back into their old routine. For Germany to find himself charmed by Italy's smile, to feel a warmth bubbling in his chest that he hasn't since the Italian left and his nation began to truly fall apart.

And it is then that Germany realizes that his life is irreversibly tied to Italy's, and his ability to live to the fullest depends on the Italian. He begins to understand that the prospect of living without Italy is not one that he relishes. And he begins to realize that his life is not life without the Italian.

Because the ability to live isn't something that you can learn from a handbook, yet Italy Veneciano has it down to a fine art, and Germany considers himself lucky to have the Italian as a teacher.

/

"Hug?"

Ludwig looks up from the report he is working on, the pen poised over the paper as he inclines his head downwards to regard the Italian sitting cross-legged on the floor. Feliciano smiles at him, tilting his head to the side with a wide smile, his curl bobbing slightly.

"...What?" asks Ludwig awkwardly, staring at the young man with annoyance masking the red hue that has begun to colour his cheeks.

"Hug?" repeats Feliciano, holding out his arms with a hopeful expression on his face. The smile never fades, and the slight giggle that escapes his lips deepens the flush on Ludwig's face. Despite this, Ludwig opens his mouth to reprimand him, ready to gently rebuke the Italian and remind him that they both have work to do, and that they don't have time to loll around and hug.

But Feliciano's smile is wide and honest, and he knows that the Italian has no time for work in his schedule. Not the way he lives. Enjoying each day is better than signing off a few useless documents, and choosing to pretend work does not exist is a practice that Feliciano follows vigilantly, and one that he has taken to impressing on Ludwig.

"Hug...," whines Feliciano, a pout and watery gaze replacing his smile, "Hug...hug..."

"Alright," mumbles Ludwig gruffly, pushing himself off of his chair and walking to where the Italian was leaning against the wall. In his mind, he wonders how and when this began to occur. When exactly he became sucked into Feliciano's crazy philosophies on life and his lackadaisical work ethic. Because having his ever-important reports interrupted is bothering him nowhere near as much as it should.

Feliciano leaps to his feet happily, and bounds forwards, enveloping his German counterpart in a surprisingly tight hug.

Ludwig doesn't stiffen like he used to, doesn't growl roughly and push the man away. And, once again, he amazes himself when he melts into the embrace, and wraps his arms around the smaller man, holding him gently to his chest.

Feliciano pulls back, the usual bright smile on his face. He leans up on his tippy toes and presses his lips lightly to Ludwig's. Ludwig immediately blushes and stiffens, and he hears the Italian giggle in front of him.

"Ve~ Ludwig gives the best hugs! Thank you!" chirps Feliciano, his hands clasped behinds his back and his face and entire form glowing with happiness.

Ludwig's entire face heats up, and he finds himself shuffling back to his desk awkwardly, hiding his face with a cough as he attempts to once again immerse himself in his reports. No sooner has Ludwig sat down in his chair before the Italian has thrown himself into his lap, his arms wrapped around the German's torso and his head nestled snugly in the crook between Ludwig's shoulder and neck.

"F-Feliciano!" splutters Ludwig indignantly. Feliciano looks up at him, and beams his bright smile of pure Italian sunshine.

"Ve~ I haven't seen Ludwig in so long!" comments Feliciano with a pout. "I've been super, super busy, and this meeting has been no fun! There's never any time to ourselves! And I have to fly back home to meet with the Pope tomorrow! Ve~ No time!"

Ludwig flinches, and his entire body stiffens.

There are many things about Feliciano that he does not understand. He appreciates all of them, and he loves all of them, but they astound and confuse him nonetheless. The most prevalent of those things is how Feliciano can love him, another man, when he is a devout Catholic. When the most homophobic people in the world live in the heart of his country. The fact that the Italian meets frequently with the _Pope. _He leaves the morning after spending a night with Ludwig to meet with the leader of the Catholic religious community…

"Feliciano…" begins Ludwig hesitantly, stiffening under the Italian's weight. Feliciano stiffens as well, and the carefree expression fades from his face, leaving and uncharacteristic blank, emotionless one.

Without warning, Ludwig is assaulted with a deep, open-mouthed kiss. He makes a startled noise in response and moves to push his lover away, only to find Feliciano has withdrawn as quickly as he attacked.

"Ve~ I know what Ludwig is thinking," comments Feliciano with a knowing smile, "And he needs to stop thinking it."

Ludwig freezes, and his face colours again. How can such a ditzy man be so perceptive?

"Ludwig~" coos Feliciano, placing his hands on the blonde man's cheeks and smiling down at him, shifting his body so that his knees are straddling the German's hips. Ludwig flushes. Feliciano's eyes are open, and the gorgeous amber colour is staring straight into his own blue ones. The usual glaze is gone from his face, and instead, the Italian has a look of profound contentness and knowledge.

"Ludwig, despite the beliefs of my country's religion, I am not concerned over what the church deems as appropriate in a relationship," states Feliciano. Ludwig is again, astounded by how light and airy Feliciano's voice is, despite the seriousness of the topic. Feliciano giggles, apparently amused by his boyfriend's open-mouthed expression, before shifting and continuing his monologue.

"Ludwig, I don't care if the Bible and the Bishops and the Pope say I'm going to hell. I love Ludwig, and Ludwig loves me, and we're living in right now. Right now we love each other, and in the past we loved each other, and in the future we'll love each other. That is how we are living. That is how I _choose _to live. I don't want to live my life tentatively and within strict rules because I fear the afterlife. I'd rather live for now, for this moment. Because Ludwig,"

Feliciano tilts his head to the side, his smile brighter and wider than ever as he leans forward and presses his forehead to the German's.

"Why worry about reaching paradise, if your Heaven is already on Earth? Live for today. Live for now. That's what I do. That's what we all should do. That's what Ludwig should do."

Ludwig is stunned, and watches in awe as Feliciano hops off of his lap, doing a little twirl as he skips across the room. The brunette turns his head to look over his shoulder, the same sunny smile lighting up his face, lighting up the room.

Because no matter how many years, how many decades, pass by, Feliciano will never cease to amaze Ludwig. The Italian's lifestyle is surreal, like something out of a fairytale. A life fueled by unquenchable optimism and a deeper understanding of the world than anyone gives the Italian credit for.

Italy Veneciano lives for every moment, for a life that is more than just getting by and fearing the beyond, and Germany considers himself the luckiest man in the world for being able to share it with him.

/  
It's finally time for the meeting.

Today's meeting is scheduled to start at 12:00. A time chosen to respect nations that might have been suffering from jet lag or other such afflictions. In reality, it is used as time for friends and lovers to reunite and spend some time together before the 12-hour meeting that will threaten to suck out their very souls.

By 11:50, most of the countries have assembled. They have not yet assumed the semblance of order or decorum, and are still milling around, interacting, giggling to one another. Lovers are spending the last moments before they'll have to assume their political façade, and sweet, if somewhat awkward moments, are prevalent.

China, blushing a deep red, is being led around the room in some semblance of a waltz, with Korea deaf to his cries for release as he tightens his hold around the older nation's waist and dips him to the ground whilst kissing his nose tenderly.

Spain has, against all odds, managed to get Romano to cuddle with him, in front of everyone, and the Italian is currently sitting in between Spain's legs with his back pressed against the older man's chest, their hands intertwined as the Spaniard tenderly brings Romano's hand to his lips and kisses it.

America is obnoxiously belting out some rock song, twiddling his fingers as he plays some imaginary guitar, England- shockingly enough- at his side, draped over his shoulder and crooning some sweet melody into the younger man's ear.

It is these scenes, and others similar, that Germany and Italy walk in on.

Germany (predicatably) is flabbergasted by the sight. The relationships aren't new, nor is the lack of order before a meeting, but never has he seen it so…so…flagrant. China is too uptight and old-fashioned to dance in public. Romano refuses to show affection in front of others. England would sooner die then sing a duet with America in front of the world.

Germany can only stare.

"What are they…?"

"Ve~ ," Germany turns to the Italian at his side, his eyebrow raised questioningly. Italy beams up at him.

"They're living for today. For this moment. For each other. See, Ludwig? Everyone's doing it."

**The reason I wanted to do Italy for this chapter was because of the Catholic church. I also wanted to address the homophobia in WW2 Germany, but I couldn't fit it in. :(**

**So, yeah. I hate this chapter. And it hates me too. The two of us just couldn't get along. It did not want to be written, I was impatient to get it written. It was quite stressful, and I think we're both glad to be parting ways. I don't think it's as good as the others, and it's probably flipping me the finger right now. I'd try and rewrite it if I wasn't so sure it would end up worse.**

**Alas, this is the last chapter. It's been really fun, and I quite love this story. I've had some truly amazing and inspiring reviews, and I want to tell you all that I love you with all my heart and wish to glomp you. You made several of my days. X3 **

**So, reviews for last chapter please? I'll try and reply to these ones! **

**xoxo, natcat5 ;p **


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